


meeting mary

by puffy_pastry



Category: Black Panther (2018), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-06-23 19:54:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15613836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puffy_pastry/pseuds/puffy_pastry
Summary: “It is alright to hate me…” the Queen Mother says, making him aware that he’s just rambled everything aloud, “… and my son. It is alright if you spit your venom at Wakanda, but child…” here she pauses, and when she speaks again, Erik swears her voice is stronger than vibranium, “If you turn this darkness onto yourself, if you continue thinking that nothing but pain and agony awaits you, I will show you the true meaning of fear.”Maybe it’s the fever, or maybe it’s because he’s practically risen from the dead, whatever it is, in a moment of weakness, it makes Erik believe her.Or, the Queen Mother mothers Erik.





	1. Chapter 1

Erik is not surprised to find that he’s still alive; disappointed maybe, angry, and more than a little annoyed, but not surprised. Nothing’s ever come easy for him, so why would death be any different? To die with the soft breeze, breathing in the air of the home he never knew, under the gold-lit sky – that’s not for him.

Nah, Erik’s destined to rot in jail, wasting away until his past catches up with him. When an American, Afghani, Iraqi – shit whichever nationality really – finds a way into Wakanda and drives a blade through his throat and leaves him choking on his own blood, that’s when death will come for him.

So, he’s not surprised at all when he wakes up, slowly gaining consciousness like wading through water. He is, however surprised to realize that he’s not bound up in the darkest, dirtiest cell that Wakanda has to offer.

This – laying on top of a mattress with silk sheets, head resting on the softest pillow he’ll probably ever rest his head on, and all wrapped up in a luxurious blanket – this is a surprise. But then again, he knows jack shit about Wakandan traditions, this could be how they treat all their prisoners before due process.

But Erik’s never been one to wait on due process. He sits up… well, he tries to, but a sharp ache shoots out from his chest, resonating through his entire body. It leaves him breathless, gasping for air. Through the haze of pain, he hears someone huff, clearly unimpressed with the small jerk that’s left him shaking like a newborn foal, and then a door slam shut. He lays there for what seems like eternity, staring at the intricate tapestry hanging atop the bed until the door opens again.

“Queen Mother,” a woman murmurs, voice low and dangerous, “I do not think you should be here. The King explicitly stated that the man was to receive no visit-”

The woman falls silent when someone else – the Queen Mother? Has she come to kill him? Take matters into her own hands? – clucks her tongue.

“Xoliswa, when my son decides to show his face to me again, I shall tell him that you followed my commands, and kept me informed like any good child would their mother. Now, leave us.”

“Queen Mother-”

“Leave us.” the Queen Mother orders.

There is a moment of silence, where the Dora Milaje – it has to be one of them – hesitates, torn between following her Queen’s order and her duty to protect. In the end, Erik hears receding footsteps and the door shutting before everything is silent again. He struggles to open his eyes, still shaking, still gasping for air, and fights through the blurriness to watch as the Queen Mother approaches him.

“Not a smart move,” he manages to spit out, “I could kill you before you even get a chance to scream for help.”

The Queen Mother lets out a huff of amused laughter, “In your condition?” she inquires as she takes a seat beside him, “Even this old woman could take you down without trying.”

“That what you here to do then? Take me down?” Erik asks.

The Queen Mother does not reply. After waiting a while for her answer, Erik closes his eyes and turns his focus inward. He can tell that he’s in the throes of a fever, that the wound in his chest isn’t fully healed, that his own damn body is betraying him, revealing his weakened state for all his enemies to see.

“You are angry.” the Queen Mother finally speaks up.

“Yeah, no shit.” Erik snaps – he hates this. He hates her and her son, he hates the damned bed with its pillows and blankets, he hates the room, he hates Wakanda, he hates that he’s still breathing, he hates him-

“It is alright to hate me…” the Queen Mother says, making him aware that he’s just rambled everything aloud, “… and my son. It is alright if you spit your venom at Wakanda, but child…” here she pauses, and when she speaks again, Erik swears her voice is stronger than vibranium, “If you turn this darkness onto yourself, if you continue thinking that nothing but pain and agony awaits you, I will show you the true meaning of fear.”

Maybe it’s the fever, or maybe it’s because he’s practically risen from the dead, whatever it is, in a moment of weakness, it makes Erik believe her. Still, he opens his eyes to glare at here and retort: “You think I’m gonna off myself? I ain’t about that shit.” In his mind, he finishes his sentence with ‘old hag’, but since his brain-to-mouth filter seems to have shut down, he quickly realizes that he has said those words aloud.

The Queen Mother arches a brow, staring down at Erik with an unimpressed look that makes him feel like he’s a child.

“I may be old but we both know that I am no hag.”

Her words surprise Erik, and he can’t stop the small chuckle that escapes him, but he has no time to berate himself for it since the action sends another wave of agonizing pain shooting through his veins. He bites down a scream, and groans instead at the fire engulfing his body.

Sometime later, when the blaze has somewhat lessened, he gains enough clarity to feel the cool relief of a wet cloth on his forehead, an arm resting next to his face while fingers run through his dreads. It makes him want to curl up, leaves him flayed open and raw; craving and fearing and hating that warmth.

He takes in a deep breath, shuddering and still shaking but not only from the fever this time, and says: “Stop.”

“What?” the Queen Mother asks, voice low and comforting, with one hand still running through his hair while the other turns the cloth over.

Erik can’t speak, knows that if he tries, his voice will break. He bites down on his lip to prevent it from trembling but also because he’s not certain if he’ll demand that she stop or beg her not to.

The Queen Mother removes the cloth from his forehead, lets it lay on the pillow and soak it as she leans closer and closer until their foreheads touch, and Erik, too weak to move or push her away, breathes in the forgotten scent of spice that used to hang off his father like dew on leaves or blood on skin. But even still, she leans closer, until there is no space left between them and whispers: “Stop what, N’Jadaka?”

And Erik… Erik breaks.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time Erik wakes up, he’s not disappointed, or angry or annoyed. He’s too tired to feel anything else but tired. It’s a bone-deep weariness that makes it impossible to even try to open his puffy eyes. His nose is clogged, his head feels like it’s filled with cotton, his throat feels like he’s just swallowed glass, the tear tracks on his face have dried uncomfortably, and the Queen Mother is still running her damn fingers through his hair.

To avoid thinking about and feeling the fingers, Erik turns his focus on the low chatter that fills the room, managing to catch the second half of a long-winded sentence.

“-told me that T’Challa told her to tell me to tell you that he does not think you should be here.”

He recognizes the voice immediately as one belonging to that twiggy little sister of T’Challa’s and her words spark an interest in him that cuts through the weariness.

“And why could he not come in and tell this to me himself, hmm?” the Queen Mother demands to know.

“Mother,” the girl – Erik never did bother finding out her name – sighs, “You berated him in front of the Taifa Ngao, the Dora Milaje, the tribe leaders and Nakia. The only way it could have been more embarrassing for him is if you turned him over your knee and smacked his bottom.”

“And I should have,” the Queen Mother hisses darkly, her voices at odds with the gentle caress of her fingers, “His father took his secret to the grave, Zuri as well and T’Challa would have followed in their footsteps if this wily one,” here she tugs once on Erik’s dreads sharply, making him wince, before resuming her ministrations, “Hadn’t slipped past that foolish W’Kabi to confront him. Bah, men!”

“See, this is what I don’t understand,” the girl begins, “you will rush to comfort a man who tried to murder your son but cry for the banishment of one who did nothing more than what he thought was right.”

“What he thought was right was wrong. He betrayed his own King for vengeance and besides, N’Jadaka didn’t try to murder him, he just… engaged him in ritual combat.”

The girl lets out a cry of pure frustration, before taking a deep breath to calm herself. “You – I cannot believe you, Mother! Using the same logic M’Baku used against you! I just – I cannot-” she cuts herself off and Erik listens to her pace around the room to regain her composure. “W’Kabi made one mistake, just one, but the man in that bed has spent his entire life thinking about my brother’s death. If you believe he will simply give up trying to kill-”

“W’Kabi’s father did not die by my husband’s hand and he was not abandoned by his people. I read the files Everett Ross so kindly provided you – a mother who struggled to put food on the table, who could not raise her own son because she was so busy providing for him and died in a shootout when he was fifteen. A nation that hated him for the color of his skin, who laughed at him and bullied him, and when he studied to earn his scholarship, told him that he got it because he was black. Do you think a child in such a harsh environment could grow up with anything other than hate in his heart? W’Kabi grew up loved and in turn, he threw fistfuls of ants in the faces of those who loved him most! Do you expect me to forgive and forget? Ah, Shuri… you think I am angry at W’Kabi because he betrayed my son? What about Okoye, hmm? She is heart-broken by W’Kabi’s betrayal. She is like my daughter and he just tossed her love aside like it meant nothing. No, W’Kabi betrayed more than just his king, he betrayed his own people, and T’Challa has the audacity to ask the Queen Mother of the very nation W’Kabi betrayed to pardon him? Bah, even with all the knowledge and technology at your fingertips, the two of you are still the girl who did not listen to the old woman or the Ant. Away with you!”

The girl does not hesitate in leaving. Erik can almost envision her scampering towards the door in a mad dash of spindly limbs, eager to escape the wrath of her mother.

“And you,” the Queen Mother hisses, “do not think that I don’t know you are awake. I raised two ruffians who Baast herself could not have raised. They tried every trick in the book to pretend they were asleep so that I would leave the room. You cannot fool me N’Jadaka.”

“It’s Erik,” Erik growls, the aches from the fever give way to the anger in him, clearing his mind of any sway the Queen Mother might have had over him. It boils inside him, white-hot and blinding, until there is nothing but rage. “And I don’t need your pity,” he sits up, bidding his sore muscles to move, grabbing her wrist and jerking it away from his head. “You think you can just right the wrongs of your husband? Think your sympathy can wash away his sins? Nah lady, it ain’t that easy. You shoulda just let me-”

The door swings open, cutting Erik off. The Dora Milaje storm in, spears raised, and surround the bed. Past them stands T’Challa, the angriest Erik has ever seen him, and beside him, his sister, with wide, fearful eyes.

“Let my mother go,” he snarls.

Erik looks down and sees his fingers wrapped around the Queen Mother’s wrist in a crushing grip, like an anaconda coiling around its prey. He hadn’t meant to do that, hadn’t meant to cause her any pain. He loosens his fingers, lets her tug her hand away, but even as he does so, a voice in the back of his head – this slick, insidious thing – whispers to him that he could have broken his wrist in one sharp move, before any of the Dora Milaje could reach him. It leaves him feeling sick, yet the next words out of his mouth are not an apology.

“I told you,” he says, feeling the uncontrollable tremors that wrack his body, and grins at their raised weapons and righteous fury, “I told you that was a dumb move.”

T’Challa moves closer, pulling his mother behind his own body, like he’s afraid that Erik might try to jump her. His sister steps forward as well, to stand beside them, her fear overtaken by anger now that her mother is no longer in danger.

“Shuri, take mother to her rooms.” T’Challa orders, eyes still trained on Erik, “And have someone-”

“Do not presume you can send me away,” the Queen Mother cuts in, she steps up to T’Challa, shrugging off her daughter’s hand with a swift jerk.

T’Challa turns to face her with a weary sigh, “Mother, now is not the time to argue. Please, you shouldn’t be here,” he looks back towards the bed and nods at one of the Dora Milaje, the woman that Erik recognizes as the General. “Okoye, take my mother-”

“She will not take me anywhere!” the Queen Mother cuts in again. “Stand down, all of you!”

The Dora Milaje hesitate, only for a second, before simultaneously lowering their spears. They don’t move away from the bed or stop staring down at Erik though. A choked sound of frustration escapes from T’Challa’s throat. He looks like he wants to argue against his mother’s demand, but Erik guesses that he’s probably biting down on any logical counterpoints because he doesn’t want the full wrath of his mother baring down on him.

Erik knows how he feels. His own mother was also a woman who was not to be trifled with; she didn’t have the time nor the patience to deal with anyone’s bullshit. His mind, from the hazy memories paints her as a fearsome and independent person and so, for the second time in his life, Erik feels the barest sense of kinship with his cousin. He can’t help but take pity on him.

“You should listen to your son,” he says, feeling like if anyone can defuse the tension in the room, it was going to be him; the guy who was the least emotionally invested in the situation.

But then the Queen Mother whirls around to face him, eyes ablaze and narrowed to slits, and Erik realizes that he was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note:  
> this is not beta-read, if anyone notices any mistakes please tell me. thanks.


	3. Chapter 3

Erik’s whole life has been a struggle, a fight for survival – from the time he was a child and his mama forbade him from wandering the streets at night because the cops loved easy pickings , to his time at MIT where the other students would accuse him of cheating or threatening them and the staff would take their claims seriously without any validity, to his years as an operative where he’d be put in situations nobody else would volunteer for, without backup, and be told to come back if he was successful or not come back at all.

He’s thrived on proving people wrong, defying their expectations and coming out on top despite the hand he was dealt, but here, after the Queen Mother’s tirade, Erik does something he’s never done before, he backs down.

Shit, he’s just had the rug pulled out from under him. The Queen Mother’s scolded him for the havoc he caused from the moment he stepped onto Wakandan soil, to killing the old man even though he offered himself as sacrifice, killing one of the Dora Milaje, trying to kill her daughter and her son, and her future daughter-in-law – here, T’Challa made a sound like he’d swallowed someone wrong; her daughter had taken this as a sign that she should step in and try to calm her mother down, but before she’d even spoken a word, the Queen Mother had turned to give her such a piercing glare that she’d immediately withered and stepped back in line beside her brother.

It had been a brief respite for Erik, not nearly long enough for him to get his bearing, and not a second later he was being hounded for ordering the burning of the City of the Dead, trying to destabilize the world, for thinking he could rule the world by freeing one race and enslaving the other, for turning into the very monsters he hated and for thinking he could simply die without being served justice for everything he’d done and getting justice for everything that had been done to him.

She’d finished by adding that perhaps a few smacks to the bottom ought to straighten him out, and damn, Erik had nothing.

He just continued staring at a spot just off her shoulder – because somewhere in the middle of her tirade, she’d also told him off for not looking at her while she was talking to him – and feeling regret for ever stepping into Wakanda.

He should have just continued working with the CIA. Overthrowing world leaders, getting paid, and then retired. Or maybe, his father should have, in large bold letters, written a word of warning about the true danger of Wakanda – it wasn’t there disregard for outsiders, not their weapons or their technology; it wasn’t the Dora Milaje or the powers of the heart-shaped herb, but their Queen Mother, and perhaps then, Erik would have been better prepared for the talking down he’d just received.

Erik takes a glace around the room, eyes roaming over the stone-faced Dora Milaje who were probably trained to not reveal any emotion and so, masterfully contain their glee, over to T’Challa and his sister who look as sullen as he’s feeling, and finally to the Queen Mother who is breathing heavily and still glaring at him. With what little backbone, or perhaps the combined stupidity of an entire population, Erik forces himself to maintain eye contact. It’s hard, looking at her after she’s just destroyed him, but Erik doesn’t falter.

Eventually, the Queen Mother breaks the contact by turning to address the General. “Okoye,” she says, and the General stands to attention, “Take me back to my rooms. I have had enough disappointment for the day.”

She walks out with the General a step behind her, loudly bemoaning how heartbroken she is at having a disgrace for a son, daughter and nephew, and wading what she had done to deserve such misfortune. A few moments later, the rest of the Dora Milaje follow suit, probably wandering off to a more private area so that they can laugh at the expense of Erik’s pride.

Once they’re gone, T’Challa’s sister says what they’re all thinking. “You should have just left him to die,” she hisses at her brother, quietly though, all the while eying the closed door like she’s expecting her mother to come flying in, “It would have been better for all of us.”

She shoves T’Challa with a frustrated huff, he doesn’t budge. It only frustrates her more, and she moves to kick his shin, but he dodges her leg, gracefully side-stepping away from the attacking limb.

“Better for the two of you,” he corrects her, annoyance bleeding into his voice, “But I would have been a dead man walking.”

Erik watches them squabble and tells himself that he’s not jealous. Back when his father had still been alive, he’d had friends around the block, kids to play ball with and roam the streets. But after that night, things had never been the same. The camaraderie, the pity, the understanding – Erik didn’t need that, what he’d needed was justice, and he’d known no one would give it to him.

So, on that very. As the police ruled his father’s murder as a gang-related death and Erik watched them take his away in a body bag, he’d sworn that he’d get justice served himself. He didn’t have time for his mother’s glances or for the few children that adamantly yelled at him to get his ass down to the makeshift court outside their apartment.

He’d thought that they were different back then, that those children had lost their family to hatred and suppression whereas he’d lost his to his own blood. But then he’d grown up, raised on the words of his father’s book with a ring on a chain like shackles and realized that they were all the same. That while they’d struggled to survive, children like T’Challa and his sister thrived in a closed-off nation, too proud and too fearful to help those in need. That’s when the purpose for his goal had changed – he was going to take his uncle down, rip out the roots of Wakanda’s ignorance and fight for the oppressed, the forgotten ones.

But here he is – vision unrealized, body broken while his brothers and sisters remain oppressed and the Wakandans get to rebuilding their lives, to pretending like the outside world doesn’t exist.

“Man, get fuck outta my room!” he snarls. It isn’t his room, he knows, and T’Challa’s sister is quick to point this out, but Erik wants them out of his sight.

“Shuri, give us a moment.” T’Challa says, a voice of calm that stops the room from descending into chaos.

His sister follows the order, though not without protest. She grumbles and stomps her way to the door and lets it slam shut as she leaves to make her displeasure known. Throughout the ordeal, Erik doesn’t break eye contact T’Challa. He might have dropped the ball with his mother, but he refuses to do so with him – nah, he’s ready for whatever the son of his father’s murder throws at him.

“You were right.”

Except that.

Erik tries to play it cool, but the confusion must show on his face because T’Challa moves to take seat while clarifying his statement. “Wakanda has stayed in the shadows for too long. We have remained silent and steeped in our traditions and the world has suffered for it. But Erik…” here, T’Challa pauses and Erik sees the fevered gleam in his eyes, can feel the passion and dedication, “… we are not our ancestors, we can change the world for the better, we can-”

“None of that matters. It still won’t change the fact that your father killed mine.”

That shuts T’Challa up. He looks surprised, like he’d thought watching the sun set over Wakanda had erased the past, swept the slate clean and given them an opportunity to start anew. But it doesn’t work like that, and Erik’s going to disabuse him of the nation that life could ever be so simple.

T’Challa looks away, lips pursed and downturned. He remains like that for a while, lost in thought before nodding to himself and standing up. As he walks towards the door, Erik feels vindicated, satisfied with the slump of his shoulders and how his head hangs low. He opens the door, pauses there and looks back.

“I’ve made plans to open an outreach center in Oakland. I hope you do not mind I’ve named the branch that works with young children the N’Jobu Youth Project.”

And that… that burns.

Erik watches T’Challa leave, gently closing the door, and feels the darkness overshadow the vindication. It burns knowing that T’Challa will do more than Erik ever could, ever has in his own father’s name. That all his sacrifices and his sins – the pain, the loss, the blood on his hands; everything he’s ever done in the name of justice, to break the chains binding his brothers and sisters – is meaningless. That the very freedom and opportunities Erik’s been fighting for his entire life, T’Challa will be able to grant with just one damn move, and all in the name of Erik’s father.

God, it burns.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a moment between the queen mother and t'challa

Romanda slowly binds her hair up, winding the long dreads into curls around her head before placing the headdress un top, careful not to agitate her sore wrist.

N’Jadaka is strong and knows his own strength, but rage blinds him. Romanda cannot blame the boy for this. She knows that he didn’t have anyone to teach him better when he was a child, and that his time as an American Special Operative would have been spent learning to use that rage more efficiently. It does not matter; the boy will have plenty of time to unlearn what he has been taught. But for now, Romanda’s attention is focused on another boy.

She walks to the balcony and waits for him. No more than five minutes have gone by before Xoliswa announces him into her room and quickly leaves. Romanda doesn’t turn away from the Wakandan skyline, instead choosing to wait until her son approaches and stands by her side.

“I should not have asked you to pardon W’Kabi,” he admits, though Romanda can tell he’s not happy with apologizing by his sullen tone, “I am sorry, mother.”

Romanda glances at him from the corner of her eye, and her heart grows weak. He looks tired; it’s only been two weeks since he’s been crowned, but already, the burden of being king has begun wearing him down. The path ahead is not an easy one, yet he will straighten his shoulders and face all obstacles head on, Romanda knows this. It’s always how her son has been.

Wakanda is in turmoil – rattled by the truth behind N’Jobu’s disappearance and the revelation of his son – half the nation calls for his death and the other, a banishment. Romanda will have neither; her nephew has suffered much, she will not have him suffer more.

When the Taifa Ngao and the tribe leaders, except for the Jibari tribe whose Taifa Ngao had watched the chaos with a disapproving expression and M’Baku who had simply looked disgusted, had been arguing over N’Jadaka’s fate – trial then death, immediate banishment, a quick public execution, an indefinite prison sentence – Romanda had stood up, and as Queen Mother, announced her intention to royally pardon her nephew. In the history of Wakanda, only one other woman had exercised her power as Queen Mother, and now, Romanda was to be the second.

The Taifa Ngao and tribe leaders had fallen silent after her announcement, none of them brave enough to speak against her, even though Romanda could tell they had strong reservations. But then T’Challa, her brave, forgiving son, had asked her to royally pardon W’Kabi as well.

Romanda’s vision had gone red, she’d heard Shuri gasp and M’Baku mutter ‘big mistake’ before the outrage took her. When she’d regained composure, T’Challa had looked mortified and indignant. He’d stood up, hands curled into fists, and strode out of the room without a word. After he’d left, Romanda had declared the meeting finished and the council had silently filed out of the room, the quietest Romanda had ever seen them.

She can admit to herself now that she had overreacted. It hadn’t been her intention to embarrass her son, but in all fairness, he had asked something outrageous of her.

“Call the council to reconvene,” she says as she turns to face her son. “I will apologize for my… outburst and-”

T’Challa’s surprise is palpable, he almost jumps at her words, and quickly takes her hands in his. “Mother, you do not have to apologize,” he tells her earnestly.

“Oh, but I do,” Romanda insists, she looks down to their entwined hands and recalls a time when her fingers curled around his like his did hers now, “It is not becoming of the Queen Mother to lose her composure like I did, and certainly not towards the King.”

A faint smile graces T’Challa’s lips. “Even when the King asks something very stupid of her?” he inquires playfully.

Romanda smiles as well, she pulls a hand free from her son’s grasp and raises it to cup his cheek, “Especially then,” she replies.

Wakanda may be in turmoil, and beyond her borders, the rest of the world teetering on the edge of ruins, but here, as her son lowers his head to rest against hers, Romanda believes everything will be alright.

 

They sit and talk for a while, granted a moment of respite from the madness surrounding them. T’Challa allows himself to finally let go; he unleashes the torrent of emotions he’s had to keep hidden to Romanda – his fears, his anger, his disappointment.

The consequences of T’Chaka’s actions may no longer trouble him now that he and the council know of Romanda’s intention to pardon N’Jadaka, but his decision to reveal Wakanda’s true nature to the world has been controversial as well.

The Taifa Ngao and tribe leaders are not happy with his intentions and Romanda knows that the people will also question their King’s choice. But there will be some who applaud him; the young who are not bound to the past, and the few elders who can look past their old ways and set traditions to realize that Wakanda can will not remain standing strong, if the rest of the world around her collapses.

There is Shuri, Nakia, the Dora Milaje, the unassuming Everett Ross, and ever M’Baku – they all stand beside T’Challa, supporting him and believing in his vision of a better world. And as time goes by, when their bodies have returned to the dirt, and their souls to the open fields of the ancestral plains, those who live will remember her son. They will know him as a visionary, a savior. They will see him as a paragon for the Black Panthers to come, the greatest of Baast’s sons.

T’Challa ducks his head when Romanda tells him this; bashful and trying to hide how he glows with pride under her praise. T’Chaka had always said their son was a mama’s boy, and he’d been right.

“If you were to take the throne, I am sure no one in the entire world would dare cross you,” he says playfully, ever the flatterer, “We would have no problems achieving world peace.”

Romanda thinks of N’Jadaka with that forlorn look on his face and the defiance clear in his eyes as she’d yelled at him, and can’t help but smile, “Oh, I can think of at least one.”

The playfulness leaves T’Challa’s face, replaced by a furrowed brow and downturned lips. “Mother,” he begins cautiously, like he’s afraid of saying something that might offend her, “I want… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Romanda knows his worry stems from love; she can see him looking at her bandaged wrist, wondering why she hasn’t gotten it healed, but he has no cause for concern.

“Do not worry about me,” she tells him. His frown only grows deeper and he opens his mouth to speak, but Romanda quickly adds: “You have plans for the world, and I have plans for N’Jadaka. Go now, save all of us. Leave this one to me.”

T’Challa doesn’t move, so Romanda brings her hands up to cup his face and leans up to kiss the furrow from his brow. She feels him unwind, slowly moving closer, and in turn curves her arms around his shoulder to pull him into her embrace.

“Go now, my son,” she whispers as his arms wind around her waist. “The world waits for you.”

T’Challa nods against her neck and pulls away. He takes a moment to compose himself and then stands up. Romanda gets off her seat as well and takes his arm when he offers. Together, they leave her room, and enter the hall where Okoye and Ayo stand to attention and fall in line a step behind them. They walk in silence to the landing pad where Shuri and Nakia wait. As soon as Shuri spots them, she rushes over, flinging herself into Romanda’s arms. T’Challa steadies them, winding his arm around Romanda’s waist as Shuri continues to cling to her.

This will be the first time that she leaves the safety of Wakanda’s borders, but Romanda knows her daughter. She is smart and brave, she will be just fine.

“You be a good girl out there,” Romanda murmurs as she strokes her hair, “And take care of your brother.”

“It is Shuri who needs care,” T’Challa contends lightly, “Not I.”

Romanda and Shuri break their embrace to give him matching reproachful looks. He pretends to be offended, adamantly insisting that Shuri will be the protected, and he the protector. Shuri is quick to retort and they descend into a childish squabble as Romanda watches fondly.

“Oh please,” says Nakia with a roll of her eyes as she joins them. “They two of you couldn’t even protect your pet duck when you were young. I can still remember you crying when the hawk snatched it away.”

Romanda’s fondness gives way to a glare. Her children are frozen, expression caught somewhere between joy at their verbal jousting and fear at Nakia’s revelation.

“You mean the duck you set free because you believed it cruel to keep animals as pets?” she demanded to know.

T’Challa gulps and opens his mouth to say something but Suri speaks first. “It was T’Challa’s fault, mother,” she informs her, wide-eyed and earnest. “He let it out of the pen.”

“Only because you told me to,” T’Challa argues, pointing at her accusingly. “I would not have-”

“Well, you shouldn’t have listened to me!” Shuri retorts, slapping his hand away from her face. “I was just a child.”

T’Challa resumes pointing at her, dodging her next attempt to slap the offending appendage. “Ah, but so was I, Shuri, so was I.”

“I was younger though. You should have known-”

“Children,” Romanda cuts in. “It does not matter, the past is the past, it no longer matters. Think ahead, of the future.”

T’Challa and Shuri continue glaring at one another and Romanda smiles.

Some things never change. She knows that they will continue this argument once they’re in the Royal Talon Fighter, perhaps even all the way to California. Or maybe, mid-flight, Nakia and Okoye will have had enough of their snide remarks and sour attitudes and straighten them out. Whatever the case, Romanda knows that together, they will change the world for the better.

And so, she pulls them into her arms and holds them one last time before they go. She pulls away to kiss their foreheads and whisper Baast’s blessings into their ears before sending them off.

The Royal Talon Fighter takes off under the setting sun, leaving Romanda and Ayo alone on the landing pad. The two of them watch it disappear, cloaked in invisibility as it heads towards the border and then beyond, towards California.

“Shal we head back inside, Queen Mother?” Ayo asks softly.

Romanda shakes her head and breathes in the air, feeling the wind curling around her, and smiles to herself. “No,” she murmurs, gazing at the sunset and taking in the breath-taking beauty of her nation. “Not yet.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live

Romanda waits a week before she goes back to visit N’Jadaka again. During that time, she watches her son’s speech at the UN and the world’s reaction to it; rocked by the revelation of Wakanda’s resources and status. The leaders from across the globe, they are in awe, slack-jawed and wide-eyed as T’Challa demonstrates the possibilities achievable with Wakandan technology. Romanda observes the way some of them salivate at the mention of vibranium, the greed clear on their faces, and knows T’Challa must see it too. Behind him, Okoye is frowning, glaring unflinchingly at the crowd, silently challenging them to try something, and Nakia’s soft smile gains a sharp edge. As soon as T’Challa concludes his speech, the room erupts into chaos. The leaders demand more information, firing question after question like boars clambering around a trough. T’Challa clams them down with a single raise of his hand and answers all their questions with patience, making Romanda glow with pride.

The following days, she spends overseeing the rebuilding of the City of the Dead. There, she helps the caretakers pull out the burnt, shriveled roots of the heart-shaped herbs. No one knows if Baast will bless them with her gift again, but the scientists at Mt Bashenga have requested the dead roots to study them, and perhaps unlock the key to regrow them.

The first day Romanda comes, Zola falls to her knees and begs forgiveness for not trying harder to prevent the burning. Romanda, spotting the bruises marring her throat, quickly kneels beside her and assures her that there is nothing to forgive. She orders Ayo to take Zola to the hospital and sets about helping the others.

It is slow going; clearing the ash, collecting the roots, resoiling the garden, but rewarding. And when the week is over, the City of the Dead has been swept clean, restored to its former glory despite the glaring lack of the heart-shaped herbs. Romanda thanks the caretakers and heads back to the palace.

There, Ayo suggests she seek medical attention for her sprained wrist, just as she’d done all the previous nights, but Romanda waves her off and goes to her chambers. She takes off her headdress, puts on her night clothes and falls asleep, watching her son and daughter unveil the Wakandan International Outreach Center in Oakland, California.

 

“That boy needs to be taught some manners,” Xoliswa grumbles when Romanda asks her how N’Jadaka’s been faring. “He’s been hissing at anyone who enters the room. His fever has abated, but he won’t get any better if he keeps picking at his food instead of eating it.”

She gestures down to the tray she’s holding, where the eggs have been poked at, oozing yolk, the bread nibbled at like a rat and the tea left untouched.

Romanda clucks her tongue in disappointment. “Ayo, get someone to bring another cup and some freshly brewed tea.”

Ayo leaves and Xoliswa leans closer. “He is suffering from night terrors. The first night he woke up screaming, and when I came into the room, he attacked me. I… I do not think he recognized where he was, Queen Mother.”

She looks uncomfortable admitting this, and Romanda can understand why. Wakanda takes great pride in their warriors and War Dogs, knows the sacrifices they make, the horrors they see, and give them the help they need. The United States also has respect for their veterans, Romanda is well aware of this too, but she also knows that as a nation, they fail to rehabilitate them and heal their minds.

“You should not go in there alone.” Xoliswa adds.

Romanda senses her fear, knows that she is imagining the worst-case scenario, but she does not share the same fear.

Ayo approaches them with the teapot and cup in a small tray. Romanda thanks her as she takes it from her and asks Xoliswa to give her the other teacup as well.

“Now, open the door.” She demands once Xoliswa places the filled cup in the tray.

“Queen Mother-” Ayo begins but Romanda does not give her a chance to continue.

“The door please, Ayo.”

Ayo concedes to the demand, grudgingly opening the door, and Romanda steps inside. The room is nearly dark and Romanda pauses as her eyes adjust to the lack of light. Through the heavy curtains, the soft glow of the sun dimly illuminates the room and she can make out N’Jadaka sitting on the bed, glaring at her.

“Man, y’all don’t know the meaning of ‘get out,’ do you?” he snarls low. “Well, let me make it clear for you, fuck-”

“Language, N’Jadaka.” Romanda cuts in.

The boy falls silent and eyes her warily as she makes her way to him. She sets the tray on the bedside table and goes to open the curtains before settling down on the chair.

“Tea?” she inquires politely.

N’Jadaka glances at the tray. “I prefer coffee,” he informs her, trying to match her amicable tone but failing to keep the suspicion from his voice.

“You will have tea.” Romanda declares primly as she takes the full cup from the tray and holds it out for him.

N’Jadaka glares at the cup like he’s offended by its very existence. “It’s cold,” he says.

Romanda can sense the agitation growing within him and so, pulls the cup away from him and tips it over the tray, letting the tea spill out. N’Jadaka makes an aborted sound and the agitation on his face gives way to surprise. Romanda lifts the pot and pours some more tea into the cup. She holds it out for N’Jadaka again, and this time, he takes it without complaint.

Romanda smiles, satisfied at his compliance, and pours herself some tea as well. As she goes to take a sip, she spots N’Jadaka eying her bandaged wrist. She catches his gaze and raises an eyebrow inquisitively.

“I’m not apologizing,” he snaps defensively. “I know you have the technology to heal that.”

“You mean to tell me I have been walking around with a sprained wrist for nothing?” Romanda exclaims, letting outrage bleed into her tone. “I cannot believe this!”

She puts the cup back on the tray and strides towards the door.

“Wait!” N’Jadaka calls out just as she reaches for the handle. Romanda turns to look at him, waiting patiently for him to speak. He hadn’t meant to call out to her, she knows this, and he’s struggling to find the words to say now that he’s got her attention. “So that it then, huh?” he decides on, “You’re just gonna leave?”

“But of course.” Romanda replies. “I see no point in leaving my wrist untreated if you refuse to feel even an inkling of guilt for it.”

N’Jadaka looks stumped by her reasoning, his face a perfect study in bafflement. He opens his mouth, then closes it, seemingly at a loss for words. Romanda turns back to the door and opens it.

“Good-bye N’Jadaka,” she says and leaves. She doesn’t wait for his farewell, knows that it won’t come, instead she just closes the door and orders Ayo to follow her to the medical bay.

It is clear that N’Jadaka has had enough for the day, he needs time alone with his own thoughts. Romanda will give him today, but tomorrow…

**Author's Note:**

> i am terrible at updating and have a tendency to abandon my stories so... :)


End file.
